How could anyone resist those eyes? The sadness radiating from t hat poor, lost soul? Not us, that’s for sure! Obvious to me that little dog needs a biscuit! Or two.
Note: Sorry folks, this is a Daily Prompt with non-working links. They may fix it, or not. I hope the little story stands on its own legs.
Once upon a time in a land far, far way, there lived a big shaggy dog by the name of Bob. Bob lived, with his family of mom, dad, and 2.7 children, in a modest home in a subdivision not far, as the road goes, from a major metropolitan city. Which we will call “The Hub.”
Every morning, Bob’s task was — after cleaning every last drop of maple syrup off the family’s breakfast plates — to trot to the mailbox. There, Bob would pick up the newspaper which the truck delivered before dawn.
Bob would clamp the paper between his big jaws and haul it inside, sometimes the worse for wear. His intentions were honorable. Nobody minded a bit of mauling to the paper. All anyone ever did was scan the sports section and check if any of the coupons were worth clipping. The rest of the paper got thrown away anyhow.
All that ink and paper was truly wasted on the family, but Bob didn’t care and neither did any of the humans in the household.
This particular morning dawned bright and sunny. Just as Bob was about to collect the morning newspaper, he spied a bird — maybe a bluejay? — on the branch of a nearby shrub. Unable to contain his enthusiasm, even though he was no kind of bird dog, Bob took off to catch that bird.
And so the paper was left in a heap by the mail box. Bob discovered a great new world of birds, squirrels, bunnies, and (uh oh) cute girl dogs.
After that, life was never the same in the little house in the cookie cutter subdivision not far from the great, metropolitan Hub.
The end — or is it just the beginning?
I feel this is a perfect opportunity to air a grievance still fresh in my mind.
Although we are indulgent dog parents, we don’t sleep with dogs. They outnumber us two to one and the bed isn’t all that big. Moreover, they hang with us on the loveseat in the living room and in the offices from morning till we toddle off to bed in the wee hours. The bed is ours. Ours alone. I refuse to feel guilty about it. Okay, a little guilty, but only a bit. We have enough trouble getting comfortable without trying to maneuver around you dogs.
Not to mention the dirt and fur that inevitably accompanies our beloved beasts. We have a gate across the hallway. We close it at night when we go to bed, confining our poor, oppressed pets to the living room, kitchen and of course the yard via the doggy door. For the 5 or 6 hours during which I try to catch some Zs, it’s No Dogs Allowed. You guys — yes, I mean you, my black-furred miscreant — know this is our time alone. You know perfectly well that when the gate is closed, it’s “give them a rest” time.
Except last night, Bonnie, you didn’t feel like sleeping and proceeded to fling yourself at the gate. The whole house shook. I’m surprised you didn’t knock it right off its hinges. The howling and barking and yapping was bad enough, but this was like an earthquake. Totally uncool.
Bonnie, my beloved Scottish Terrier? Listen up. If you persist in flinging yourself at the gate through the night, it isn’t biscuits you’ll get. Just because you’re bored and think 3 am is a grand time for a romp and a treat, doesn’t mean we humans agree. You are going to wind up in a crate. Worse, I’ll take away your computer privileges. You won’t be able to use my laptop anymore. You know I can do it, darling Bonnie, so don’t test me. Last night, you were a wicked Scottie.
When you rousted me out of bed for that fourth and final time — was that just about 4 am?– you knew I wasn’t coming to give you a cookie. Because you ran out the doggy door and didn’t come back until I’d gone back to bed. How did you know I was mad at you? I didn’t say anything. The first three times you got your dad, then me up, you snagged a biscuit. That was supposed to shut you up. How did you know this wasn’t another goody on the way?
But you knew. You ran for the yard. Interesting. Was it the sound of steam coming out of my nose and ears? Or just the way I tread the floorboards?
Bonnie, my darling. You do that again, tonight — or any other night — and your spoiled rotten little life will be in serious peril. Do you understand? Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious. I’m mad at you!
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Bonnie Annie Laurie, the Scottish Terrier lass who runs our home with charm, grace and efficiency can do no wrong.
Although she steals dirty napkins as if they were prey and has relieved us of our socks and dish towels, we have responded appropriately — by buying more socks and letting her have her own dish towels. We keep ours in a basket out of reach and hang hers where she can steal them, as a proper Scottie must. Garry even ties them up a little to make the experience more challenging. She then takes the dish towels — and socks, let’s not forget the socks — out through the doggy door into the yard where they are never seen again. It’s hard to figure where they go. I mean … she has stolen easily a dozen and they are bright colors and reasonably large tea towels. But they are gone. We do not think they will appear again. Maybe she has friends with wings and donates them to the cause. Whatever.
She has the power of chemical weaponry on her side and can gas an entire room. Even the other dogs will leave while Garry and I cough and wheeze. Sometimes, it gets bad enough that she herself will leave. It is one of her many magical powers.
My husband will twist his body into a pretzel shape so as not to cause Milady discomfort as she stretches out on our loveseat. When Bonnie wants a treat or dinner, she makes her wishes clearly know, barking, pulling at Garry’s cuffs, or head butting the back of his knees until he falls over or accedes to her belief that if she is not fed right now, she will collapse from hunger.
She is the dog of dogs, the terrier of terriers, a Scottish Terrorist of the first order.
She is perfect.
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I don’t post a lot of pictures of my dogs. They do not coöperate. They will not sit still. They will run out of the room or stick their wet black noses right up my lens. Outdoors, they will run and hide. I’ll get nothing but pictures of their furry butts as they disappear around the corner or through the doggy door.
Inside? They huddle in the darkest corner of the room or spread out so no lens will get them.
The two miscreant terriers were groomed yesterday so they’re looking pretty spiffy. Garry offered to hold them while I took a few pictures. Emerging from my office into the dimly lit living room, I realized even if I turned on every light, it would still not be enough to get sharp images.
I am nothing if not persistent. I turned on lights. Garry had the two terrorists on his lap in a death grip. What do they have against me and the camera? I don’t even use a flash.
Garry was wearing his comfortable clothing. A sweatshirt paired with weird green fishing print pajama bottoms. The throws on the sofa are a blocky red, white and bluish print — not beautiful to begin with — that clash in a particularly noxious way with the green print pants.
Between the bad light, the wriggling dogs, the ugly background, the bad pants, the clashing colors … well, these are among the worst pictures I’ve ever taken. Barrel distortion, chromatic aberration, color shifts and everything out of focus. Absolutely nothing to recommend them. So bad I had nothing to lose by trying out some of the special effects in my filter packages. I never use special effects on good pictures. Why waste a good image?
The doggies came out kind of cute. I used a toy lens effect on one shot. On the other two, I used various vintage camera effects, with added blur, light leaks and other kinds of aging. Cute — bad — pictures. Proving if you have enough filters, you can make anything look okay.
It depends on where you stand, doesn’t it? On what you are looking at. Personally, I want coffee. But first, I need to capture that interesting shadow on the wall in the little bathroom.
And the fur people, they have a different perspective. Biscuits. Until they get their biscuits, they are obsessive, determined, focused. Notice that Bonnie is missing? She’s a bouncing shaggy black ball of energy. No way I’m going to catch her (but I keep trying). Even if I do, she doesn’t look like a dog. She won’t until I find money to get her groomed. She looks like a pile of dirty black dog hair. In perpetual motion.
While Mr. Coffee brews and I need to put some clothing on. Sandy is in my office, making copies on the printer.
“What are you doing up so early?” It’s eight in the morning.
“I’m not up. It’s an illusion. There’s a picture I need to take.”
“I’m not going to ask.”
“Good choice,” I agree. I realize I don’t have my glasses on and can’t see anything clearly. If I fail to notice I’m not wearing my eyeglasses, I’m asleep. Ignore me.
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Yesterday, all the doors and windows were open to catch the fresh air on one of the remaining warm days of late autumn. Mid late November is when it switches from summer to winter in a few hours. Last night, the temps dropped 30 degrees. Yesterday, zephyr breezes. Today? Chill winds.
We have four dogs, one of whom is a giant constantly shedding hairball (Australian Shepherd to you). He’s affectionate and despite all evidence to the contrary, believes he is a lap-dog. His sensitive feelings are constantly hurt because I won’t let him in my lap. All 75 hairy pounds of him.
I have conversations with him. I explain, in detail, the issues involved. Not only will he not fit, but his paws are wicked weapons, cats-like with claws that dig deep holes in me. Bishop is a passionate boy. We have all learned to never look him in the eyes. The moment you do, he will become a huge piece of velcro, use his tongue to slather your eyeglasses with a thick layer of dog spit.
Which brings me back to the weather. Bishop and Bonnie (the Scottie) love winter. Bishop is at his happiest sleeping — literally — in a snowdrift with Bonnie on top of him, using him as a bed. Nan, at 12, is a couch potato, thinks the ultimate good time is a comfy spot on the sofa with frequent biscuit breaks. Amber lives under a blanket downstairs. Of the dogs in the house, Amber (the dachshund) is the one with short hair and does not care much for ice and snow. Garry and I are with her on that one. And with Nan (the Norwich). A nice nap, a cozy throw, a good TV show and maybe a little fire in the woodstove.
The issue is not just weather, but dog hair. Oodles of dog hair. Great gouts and lumps and bushy piles of fur on sofas, rugs, in corners and on clothing. I find I own a lot of nice clothing I refuse to wear because I don’t want to ruin it with dog hair, not to mention the giant holes that Bishop — in a fit of overwhelming love — will tear with those wicked paws. What then, you ask (I ask, we all ask) is the point of having nice clothing?
That is a good question and if anyone has an answer, I’d like to hear it. I seem to be under the illusion I might actually go someplace someday and need attractive clothing. A lifetime of working embedded this idea in my brain. One must have Decent Clothing for job interviews — but when was the last time I had one of those? For Events — once in a blue moon seems to be the frequency. So I have nice stuff and anything I wear is instantly covered with dog hair. Everything looks tweedy.
Ironically, the other day I realized the clothing in my closet, including stuff I’ve never worn, is hairy. Pet hair is vicious, pernicious, aggressive. It sneaks into closets in rooms where dogs are forbidden — though somehow they manage to steal my underwear.
It’s part of what makes this time of year challenging. I have wonderful sweaters. Cashmere and cotton and wool. Tunics and ponchos. Many are years old but barely worn. I don’t want to ruin them.
My nice clothing is dying in the closet. Getting old and hairy and hanger worn. We could solve the problem by having fewer dogs.
Nah. Not happening.